


Wrath Like Coals

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:11:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Trespasser Lavellan deals.</p><p>Anger is a hard beast to tame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrath Like Coals

The day after her hand is gone, she is enraged.

It’s odd, she thinks, during the quiet moments when the healers are gone. How the rage pools in her gut coiling in on itself like a snake as its rough scales scrape against the embers keeping the flame alive. It’s an all encompassing kind of anger, the kind that seeps into her bones and runs across her body faster than a wildfire. The kind that could burn her alive.

Two years ago, after the final battle, she told herself she was done with this brand of anger. That she would put to rest the fires that had engulfed her since she was small, that she would let the embers stay embers before they roared into an inferno. And for two years, she succeeded. She was happy. As close as she could get to it.

That time is gone now. Solas has returned and with his final step into the mirror, he kicked up the embers anew, starting up a fire that Lavellan is not sure she’ll escape this time. If she was a mage, the Winter Palace would be alight with her anger, uncontrolled, furious, smoke running through the halls like a flight of fleeing birds.

No magic exists in her veins, however. Her rage stays in her body, captive trapped. Until she explodes.

She wonders if this is what gatlock feels like. What dragons feel like.

“Inquisitor,” Lavellan looks towards the door. Cullen is standing there, his new pet at his heels. The dog is as cheerful as ever with its new master, almost drooling on the fancy carpets Empress Celene likely paid a fortune to buy. His owner, on the other hand, looks far more somber. 

“Not Inquisitor anymore, Cullen,” Lavellan says. As soon as the mark was gone, it was set in stone as far as she was concerned, council or no council. Her words just made it official. 

“Rissa then,” Cullen said. He walked over to the desk provided in her guest room and pulled it over to her bedside, sitting down so he was facing her. The dog trotted over to his side, settling down by his master’s feet. “How are you?”

Lavellan is not sure how to answer. The only way she could think of expressing her emotions now is breathing fire itself, and sadly, that is not an available option. She looks down at her lap where she set a piece of parchment, a board and a quill an hour ago. Writing lists had proved impossible with her shaking hand. “Fine. Waiting for Celene to throw me out.”

“Celene to throw you out?”

The smile that appears on her face is sharp enough to cut through dragon’s scales. “I’m a Dalish elf now. From what I’ve been told, were not allowed in Celene’s palace unless we’re serving the nobles or warming her bed.”

Cullen’s eyebrows almost vanish into his hairline. 

Lavellan pinches her brow, taking in a deep breath. She is still among the nobility; such harsh words will have to wait until she is far away from the place. Perhaps when she’s in Kirkwall. She has land there now. It will serve her better than returning to the ashes that were once her clan.

However, the idea of moving to Kirkwall leaves a bad taste in her mouth. In Kirkwall, she will have a name. She will have a reputation. She will still be the Inquisitor in all but name.

A legacy living in a city will be a lot easier for Solas to track than a legacy living in the shadows. 

“You’re thinking,” Cullen says and Lavellan snaps out of her train of thought. He’s looking at her with a knowing expression on his face, brows creased together like he’s straining to figure her out. For all that they are alike, they’ve never fully understood each other. Where Lavellan moves left, Cullen moves right. Where Cullen aims left, Lavellan aims right.

It is what makes them a good team. 

“Trying to figure out what to do after this,” she says. “I’m going to need to find a place to live. A place where Solas won’t expect me.”

And that is where she runs into a wall. Unlike Cullen, Solas knows her. Solas gets her. Solas understands her realism, he understands her need to move, he understands how she can look at a broken world and see something to piece together. Even though he never quite saw her side in her endeavors, he always understood how she came to them, once she explained. Which means, no matter how loathe Lavellan is to admit it, he will be able to figure out her intentions as long as he knows what moves she making. 

“I have a suggestion,” Cullen says and Lavellan can’t hide her surprise when he places a piece of parchment into her lap. On it is a list of names and locations, contacts she has in odd areas, spies she can use that she has never met, locations to set up units that Solas would never think of. She knows a few of them, one of Dorian’s friends in Tevinter is offering her villa for agents, one of Hawke’s friends is offering a few of her clan to work as spies, but the last catches her off guard. She knows that location. 

“Is this your sister’s house?” 

Cullen almost blushes. “She gave her permission. I thought you might need a place to recuperate after all this madness. Learn how to use a different blade. Ferelden didn’t seem like the worst idea.”

Lavellan stares at him. Recuperate? The idea of sitting still makes her want to vomit. Cullen must notice her lips curl downwards, because he begins to speak again.

“I do not mean that you would sit around doing nothing. I’m fully expecting you to start reaching out to contacts and mobilizing men as soon as we reach the border. I’m just suggesting you do it somewhere there is fresh stew.” He reaches down, running his fingers through the dog’s hair, but his eyes are still on her. “I know why you loathe the idea of standing still. I know you do not want to think of what has transpired here. But please, Rissa, as your friend, I ask you consider it. If only to bring the fight to him stronger when the time comes.”

Lavellan is quiet for a long moment. The loudest sound in the room is the dog breathing. 

“Well,” she says at last. “I hope the fresh stew will be provided by your sister. I’ve heard horrors on your cooking ability.”

As Cullen chuckles, the fire in her stomach quells long enough to let her breathe. 


End file.
